


come on back and see

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: the hot mess, in between [3]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Borderline crack, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, New Year's Eve, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: New Year's Eve in London.or, Paul's terribly horny, John wants to find his god damn firework, George needs a break, and when the FUCK is Ringo coming back????—(previously erronously titled "come on back to me". f)
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: the hot mess, in between [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578769
Comments: 24
Kudos: 66





	1. i could never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mclennon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place between [silent night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17069240/chapters/40137050)  
> and [cabin fever.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361290/chapters/40850747)

December 31 

“Jooooooooohn.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you _need_ to do this now?” Paul shoves an open box of books aside and drapes himself over the table. “Thought _I_ was a handful enough.”

“And you _are.”_ But John still doesn’t look up from his list-writing. “An’ I thought _you_ wanted us ta get the place sorted—”

“NOT ON FUCKIN’ NEW YEAR’S EVE,” Paul whines. “We finally ‘ave our own flat, y’know, so I jus’ think— I think the year should end with a _bang,”_ he says, as he smirks low and lidded. “Y’know?”

“Oh, I _know,”_ John laughs. “Why else d’you think I’ve been lookin’ for me firework?—”

A crash from the kitchen. John screeches and Paul startles. John’s pen clatters to the floor. 

“What the hell.”

“Broke a plate,” George calls out. “Sorry.”

John tuts. He picks his pen off the floor and flips the list:

_PLATES_ \- ~~8~~ 7

“...we moved to London with _eight_ plates?” Paul asks in disbelief.

“ ‘parently so.”

“So like….. two plates per person.”

“That’s a normal amount of plates per person, ain’t it?”

Paul blinks. John’s pen, the top of it, rests in between his parted lips. He barely bites into it— it’s one of the surviving marker ones from a particularly damp art college pen case. Disgusting relic it is. And yet Paul has to bite down on his own teeth because John’s lips look so _soft_ around that pen, a watercolour painting ready to spill over its lines—

ANOTHER CRASH FROM THE KITCHEN. 

_“Six_ plates!” John announces. 

“NOT THE PLATES,” George yells. “ ‘s me own stuff!—”

“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE,” Paul groans. He runs to the bathroom and locks the door. 

~

From the table John rips out another piece of notebook paper and changes the [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/0cGG2EouYCEEC3xfa0tDFV?si=9_DdWLMES52UCN5EGFXGnQ) on his phone. He starts yelling along. George stretches at the sink, rubs at his face with a yawn. 

“Oi,” John says mid-chorus. “How many Tupperwares d’we have?”

“What?”

“TUPPERWARES!”

George kicks over the nearest box. Dozens of said Tupperwares tumble out. He sinks to the floor with a groan, and counts. 

_“Take my tears an’ that’s not nearly ALLLLLL,”_ John yells, _“Tainted looooOOOOve—”_

The wall clock, high and ticking, states that it’s nearly four. He hasn’t eaten lunch. Lennon-McCartney said they would cook, but the kitchen’s been a cramped box full of littler boxes since morning. He flumps to the floor, head to the ground. He's lost count.

Ringo’s taken the van for servicing, he remembers, Ringo loves that van. In week one of London Ringo and Paul plugged their phones into the van and played ABBA while driving all over. And he’d been left with John, who ordered a pizza that he ended up _heaving down the bloody toilet—_

_You’re no fun, Lenny._

_You’re an excellent nurse, ya know that?_

Fuck. 

_“DON’T toUCh ME puHLEASE!”_ John sings, _“I CANNOT STAND THE WAY YUH teASE—”_

George searches Ringo up in his contacts and slams on call. 

_“Hellooooooooooo.”_

George licks his lips. 

_“.....Geo? Hello???”_

“Wha— oh, sorry, I—”

_“ ‘s okay—”_

“I just, just thought—”

_“God, I was jus’ thinking ‘bout ye—”_

George stops then, bites his lip. Ringo chuckles, low over the noise from the garage. 

_“You were jus’, like…. in me mind. And now you’re callin’ and all….”_

_“TAINTED LoOOOOOVE!”_ John bellows. 

“Oh, Lord.”

_“What?”_

“No,” George says quickly. “You were in _my_ mind, too—”

_“Ain’t that why you’re callin’?”_

“I— shit. Right. Sorry.”

 _“Godyou’remakin’meheartmelt. Don’t be.”_ Ringo says firmly. _“Alright over there?”_

“They’re still cleanin’ the house,” George sighs. “And John’s takin’ stock, like.”

_“Like what?”_

“Inventory. Of everything.”

_“......why???”_

“I dunno. He hasn’t, by the way, found ‘is marbles yet, so—”

Ringo chuckles. 

“Did you eat lunch?” George asks.

_“Oh. Uh, no, I forgot....”_

“Ye comin’ back for tea?”

There’s a pause. _“Can’t.”_

“ ‘s the last tea of the _year,_ Ritchie.”

_“They’re still workin’ the van! What’s for tea anyways?”_

“What?”

_“McLennon. What did they make for tea?”_

“............................................................................................me.”

George hangs up. He then flips himself over on the floor and screams. John rushes in, stepping around boxes. 

“Holy shit, you okay there?”

“No!”

“Stubbed yer toe?”

_“No!”_

“Oh,” John says. “You can help find me firework then?”

 _“Fuck_ off!”

~

Only when he runs out of lube does Paul let up off of himself, the balls of his feet square on the toilet seat. John’s shut up now, but Paul still holds his head between his knees. He’s shaking and sweating enough to fill a shop. AND he’s still as stiff as whole _blocks_ of boards. 

That was it. He was going to get FUCKED, even if he overheated and died while at it. Despite the tediousness of unpacking, John had VERY PURPOSELY shoved his arse into the tightest pair of jeans he had. He couldn't run in those. He bent down to take a box and the curve of his arse _winked_ at Paul. AND THE THIGHS. OH GOD. _THE THIGHS_ were out like whole PLATTERS of nosh and gravy.

aND PAUL WAS FUCKING STARVING. 

Paul throws himself under the shower and throws on his robe. He storms out of the bathroom.

“John!” he calls. “I think it’s high time we take five an’ take it to the b—”

Paul steps right onto John’s dirty old bolster. 

“The what?” John says innocently, bENT OVER A BOX. 

“The………. the........ bath,” Paul stutters.

“ ‘m not _that_ mucky,” John puckers in a pout and digs even deeper. “An' I still can’t find me blasted firework!”

Paul stares. He swears his dick twitches for just a mo. “ _Blasted_ firework.”

“No, uh, technically it ain’t blasted yet.”

“FIREWORK?????” Paul catches up at last. “Why the — _no,_ where the HELL did you get a firework????”

“This, ah, Chinese chap at the station pub,” John laughs. “It was dead funny really, you shoulda been there! He had a whole box of ‘em!“

“He sold you a _firework,”_ Paul tries.

“Don’t worry, it was like five quid.”

“What? No!!” Paul’s dick drops. “John, that’s illegal!”

“Not if I light it on the roof!”

“You— you read about this?”

“Course, Macca, what else are ya supposed to do when life gives ya rockets?”

“I dunno, _ride_ them??????”

 _“Ride?_ ‘s a firework.”

“Mine isn’t!”

A big halting pause, and John smirks. Nods. Paul undoes his robe with one swipe and slams into John with a kiss that nearly knocks them both over like dummy pins, teeth and tongue before their lips even meet. He grabs either side of John’s face and kisses, kisses John’s mouth like he’s lapping up delicious second helps. John takes hold of Paul's hips and slithers his hands in between them and everywhere, overlaps their thighs and kisses back and lights them both up in some shivery dance of a rut. 

John’s jeans fall to the floor. His underwear lies amongst the bolster and the open-faced books. The words stare up as John lays Paul on the table, carefully like he’s the main course, pushing the boxes atop into chairs like dinner guests, and announces to all that dinner is served, _bon appétit!_

“Jesus,” Paul moans, delightfully overcome. “Oh, _Jesus—”_

~

_"Back so soon?"_

"You gotta come home now," George begs, quivering under the counter. "Please."

_"Why? What happened? Are you—"_

"THEY'RE SHAGGING ON THE TABLE," George hisses. "THE _TABLE,_ RITCHIE, HIS COCK IS OUT!"

_"Whose cock?????"_

_"BOTH!_ Fuckin' gross ain't it?? I can't stand it on me own here! These two, I fuckin' _swear—"_

_" 'm— I'm sorry, what exactly are ye upset about?"_

"We _eat_ at the table."

_"And?"_

John's list flies into the air and lands near George's feet. George pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs.

"I miss you."


	2. really live without you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mostly starrison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....i am aware it is over 2 weeks into 2020. college has decided to sink my poor little ship, but i know how to swim so fuck you college. 
> 
> ps, i think this would work better with another chapter, so i do hope you stay tuned! 
> 
> (at this rate,,,,, this entire series,,,,,, is going to take YEARS)

A loud sound grates over the other end. And Lennon-McCartney continue to gasp each other’s names at the table like they’re saying grace. George cringes hard. 

_“Okayokayokay,”_ Ringo says, and there’s suddenly no noise at all. _“ ‘m outside. What’d you say?”_

“McLennon,” George says like their names are mud, “I’m upset about McLennon. They’re drivin’ me up the bloody wall an’ you’re not here.”

_“.... well ‘m here right now, aren’t I?”_

“Ye know that’s not what I—”

 _“I know!”_ Ringo laughs quickly. _“I miss the hell outta you too_.”

George stops. Sighs. McLennon do as well— except on purpose, into each other’s mouth, where it can be kept safe and lovely and stupid. It’s all so, so, so not _fair._ John and Paul are as good as married and he’s stewing there all alone under the kitchen counter. 

_“Ya know…. Paul said this’d be over in, like, an hour,”_ Ringo continues. _“Lookit me, huh?”_

“Paul doesn’t know nuthin’,” George says. “How long more?”

_“Uh, maybe twenty minutes?...”_

“Oh.”

_“But there’s the drive back....”_

“...oh.”

 _“........yeah,”_ Ringo lets out a laughy sort of sigh. _“So, uh, they still doin’ it?”_

“Course they are. I just said that.” An idea pops into George’s head. “We’re eatin’ outside.”

_“We?”_

“Youan’me,” George suggests. “I mean, you haven’t had tea…. and, I mean, we ain’t touchin’ the table now, are we?”

“Fuck _no.”_

“And you won’t ‘ave to drive all the way back!”

 _“Okaaaaay. Drop the address,”_ Ringo says. _“ ‘s a date.”_ And hangs up. 

If McLennon’s mating calls weren’t steadily gETTING LOUDER it’d all be the gearest of the gear. George makes to stand up and tips a box in front of the bowl cupboards. Wads and rolls of bubble wrap come tumbling to the floor. George curses as he kneels, shoving everything back in, and a long tube of something rolls right into his foot. 

The firework is HUGE, pointy, strung up on a stick and striped red-white-blue like a barbershop pole. A string of black hanzi march down its side. He stands up sharp with it snug in his hand.

The wrap under his foot pops. Paul looks up at him then, upside-down and swimmy eyes— and catches sight of the rocket. The gasp he lets out startles John, who grins a filthy grin from where his face hovers over Paul’s neck.

“ ‘ey,” he says surprisedly, “Wouldja lookit that—”

George flings the firework at John’s head. 

~

The van’s parked nearby when George steps off the bus. Ringo’s slumped against the steering wheel with his earphones in and sleep over his eyes and hair in a mess. George slaps on the glass. 

Ringo jolts up and yanks his earphones out. A red bloom of a tissue unfurls from his nostrils when he turns to get out. George flinches. 

“The hell happened to you???”

“Oh,” Ringo rubs the tip of his nose gingerly. “When I hung up I sorta, uh, jumped. An’ smacked into a tree—”

George holds down a chuckle. “A tree?”

 _“Evil_ shites. No idea why you love ‘em so.” He looks away as he blows his nose. George tuts. He leads Ringo into the café and steers him into a booth at the back, wherein the place of a wall is a dusty window that clouds the world outside in yellow-grey. Ringo sighs in relief and shuts his eyes when George returns with an icy Coke can. He holds it on the bridge of his nose. 

"Congrats," George jokes. "We survived."

"Survived what?"

" 'nother year," he casts his gaze on the menu laminated into the table. "Well, almost—"

"Damn, don't _almost_ me," Ringo groans. "The saddest word in English's _almost_ , y’know?"

"Sounds familiar. That from a movie?"

Ringo shrugs. He glances down at the menu too, eyes darting, and sHUT UP STOP RUINING THIS, George screams at his brain. Oh, _Lord._

"Holy shit, I love this song," Ringo whispers about the screamy pop song that’s just come on the speakers, a tune George's long scorned. His rings catch the light as he drums up and down along the tabletop. George wants to take them off, take Ringo’s fingers—

A waitress with an ipad comes to their booth. "We ready to order?"

"Yeah," Ringo holds out the framed pamphlet on the table. "This.”

~

Ringo orders two slices of flaky fruit pie that's on special offer because of the New Year, extra fifty pence for whipped or ice cream. George butts in quick that he wants ice cream. The waitress makes some girlie snicker about how cute they are before her heels click away. The aircon seems to fail, then, and sends George facedown into the table. Ringo snaps the Coke can open and drinks from it. 

"So…. ya come here often?" 

George smirks against the table."Ye already picked me up."

"I know, 'm jus' curious," Ringo giggles. "Place is pretty gear."

"Oh. Well... Macca and I like the curry."

"What's that like?"

 _"Heavenly,"_ he props himself up. Ringo's smiling at him, ice-eyes bright. He turns away to rub at his nose. 

"Still haven't had one yet."

"Haven’t had what?"

“Eh,” Ringo looks down. "A curry."

"WHAT."

“What? ‘s too hot—”

“Waitwaitwait you’re tellin’ me,” George gathers his legs up and crosses them. “In all yer 24 years—”

“25.”

“ ‘s not— it'snotnewyear— in _all_ your years, you’ve never had,” George pauses gleefully, “A _single_ fuckin’ curry???”

"My stomach's a pussy, Geo!"

"Cause it always gets _fucked?"_

Ringo clutches his heart, scandalised. George doubles up laughing. His head finds the table edge again. 

"How dare you," Ringo whimpers, mock-teary.

" 'm sorry," George wheezes like an arsehole. "But you're sayin' you've never 'ad _curry!_ The fuck d’you eat when ye go out then?"

"I just........ don’t,” Ringo says reluctantly. “And I never had pizza either, cunt."

“Okay, _that_ I know, but _still—”_

" 's _way_ too spicy fer me, okay!" Ringo huffs. "Fuck you."

"......oh, _please."_

"Wh— what?"

"Not…... not _all_ curry's spicy," George says quickly. "Like, ye know Japanese curry? It's made up of the some of the same spices like the ones they use to make Indian curry, but lesser? So they make it all, uh, thick an' _sweeter_ so it's less spicy." He then stares down at the menu. "I mean, sometimes they make it jus’ a _lil_ bit spicy and all, but mostly they jus’ make it sweet."

Ringo considers this. He whips out his phone. "When'd you have Jap curry?"

"Oh, a while ago. John an’ I… he jus' got a box from somewhere."

"Oh. Sweet."

"Yeah." George digs his nails into his palm. "D'you wanna try it? Last time we had it with rice and it was gear, and 'm pretty sure John can get 'nother b—"

Ringo's flash goes off. George blinks. 

"Oh fuck," Ringo snorts, and blows the tissues out big like blooms from his nose to camouflage his face. "M'bad—"

"Fuck _you,"_ George leans over the tabletop with a laugh. "Lemme see!" 

“NooOOOOOOooOO,” Ringo leans his phone out of George’s reach. " 's super bad!"

 _"Bad?"_ George pouts. “Me on there, ain't it?"

 _"Not_ what I mean— I‘m just..... bad at this," Ringo says flatly. He gives up. George nicks Ringo's phone in one forward swoop and places himself an inch from his face. He parts the red-specked shrubs of tissue.

"D’you know that you’re allowed to be bad at stuff.”

“Haven’t the slightest idea what ye mean.” He giggles. “...fuckin’ hell, that’s me _blood,_ mind.”

“Ye don't say! Feel better?” 

Ringo glances down for a sec. “Nah. You?”

George stops then, acutely aware of Ringo’s Coke-frosty breath and the ice-eyes that shine bright beneath the blotchy crimson from his poor nose. And he lets it all in— he inches closer, touches their elbows together.

“Me?”

“Jus’.... checking.”

“Never mind ‘bout me.”

“Hey, don’t say that—”

The waitress comes by with a plate of pie in either hand, stares before she clears her throat. George and Ringo spring apart. 

“Don’t say that,” Ringo whispers when she’s walked away, and retrieves his phone. He picks up a napkin from the dispenser and points. “You’re gonna hurt yerself like that.”

George drops his gaze quick. He leans back and drops his head over the top cap of the booth in a groan. His heart has turned against him. It laughs at him for not just fucken dOING it. IT WASN'T HARD. AND SO WHAT IF THEY HADN'T KISSED SINCE THE HOSPITAL???? BIG _DEAL._ They didn't need to do that all the time. They weren't McLennon—

 _McLennon kiss all the time,_ George's heart sings. _McLennon is a two-headed monster,_ George's brain says, and they share one arsehole. And now he can't help but laugh-shudder at the thought of John and Paul sharing an arsehole. What the fuck. 

“What?” Ringo chuckles awkwardly. He begins pulling a fork from the cutlery stand, and stops. He turns, blows the tissue out of his nose in a noisy huff to the side, and pushes their plates clink against the window. “Oh, c’mere.” 

Pink and muddled, George picks himself up slowly. When his elbows hit the table Ringo pitches forward and kisses his lips.

~

Paul splashes handfuls of water on his face, the robe newly wrapped around him. He’d sat on the loo for ten minutes with his head in his hands because Geo was without doubt going to roast the _hell_ out of him when he came back. And John. 

John doesn’t care, though. He ragtimes with that fucking rocket, only in his shirt and undies, spinning the stick like a proper dance. The living room [blares with Buddy Holly](https://open.spotify.com/track/33aYzW5ToRjiFOzkubeJ8H?si=zfY_7STCS6qG-lPy9M8gmQ) and Paul’s torn between joining in or— 

Fuck it. It’s New Year’s Eve. He’s going to have _fun._

Paul reapplies the makeup he’s washed off and bumps his hip into John’s. John takes Paul in his arms and spins them both round the floor in a two-man Ring-around-the Rosie until they’re laughing like loons and falling over each other’s feet. _Ashes ashes we all fall down,_ and John comes tumbling into Paul’s lap when he plops himself at the foot of the sofa.

“So,” John starts, elbows spread out over Paul’s knees. He pauses. Paul runs a hand through his hair. 

“Soooo,” John looks up, a big smile. “One down.”

“What's that mean?”

“Dancin’ in our own flat,” John says in a rare, quiet awe. “ 's... jus' one of the things I wanted to do.”

“Oh. You got a list then?”

“Course I do. And they're my new year’s resolutions too—” John flips to rest his chin on Paul’s calf “—an’ I did it!” 

“Huh,” Paul leans down with a laugh. “Aren’t resolutions s‘posed to be ‘bout betterin’ yerself?” 

“I _am_ better. ‘m better with you around.”

“That means I’m a resolution then?”

“ ‘s not obvious?” John says. He taps Paul’s cheek. “Anyway, I _definitely_ did you—”

 _“Jesus,_ John.”

“No, lemme finish!” John clambers up, reaches over the sofa seat and pauses the music. He gathers himself back into a squat, settles and then cups Paul’s face with his gentle hands, thumbs to his cheeks. It’s almost silly, the way Paul feels his bones just about melt along with his heart.

“You—” John begins, but ends up sighing. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“Jim an’ Mary send their thanks.”

“I— fuckin’ hell,” he says. “You’re the love of me life, Macca, you know that?”

“I do.”

“And I... I didn’t check off all my resolutions.”

“That’s okay, y’know.”

“This one’s pretty big though.”

Paul tilts his head. “Bigger than me?” 

“No, you’re in it,” John puts up one hand like a vow. “By the end of 2018 I shalt leave with thou in me arms after the weddin’ and fuck off to Paris—”

Paul snickers. 

“—honeymoon down by the Seine and fUck in the Eiffel shadow,” he continues. “And I’ll... buy you all the milkshakes ya want. Or! If you want flowers I'll send fresh roses by any other name.”

 _jESUS CHRIST_ goes Paul’s heart. He has to close his eyes for a bit. “Would smell just as sweet," he finishes.

“Ye heard me,” John nods. “But we ended up in London, so....” He dips his head and laughs like it’s his fault. “Yeah, thank you and _goodbye_ aunt Mimi.” 

“So what,” Paul kisses him swiftly. "It's been _amazing,_ John. I love you. An’ God bless Mimi, really....”

“Oh, _absolutely._ That bein’ said….”

Paul holds his breath. He opens his eyes wide and looks up at John.

“...d’you reckon,” John says, “She’ll hear me firework all the way over there?”

Paul’s brow furrows at the speed of light. John bites the insides of his cheeks, but soon explodes in a fit of wheezing. He topples over onto the floor. Paul stands up with a huff.

“John,” he says, re-tying his sash. “That’s fucking illegal.”

“Relax, Macca! I _told_ ye it wasn’t—” John snorts once “—not if I light it on the roof—”

Paul notices the rocket laid on the sofa then, gleamy and cheap on top of their cushion. “What about what’s _under_ the roof, huh? You ever thought ‘bout that?”

“Under the roof? Like the neighbours?”

“No! The— y’know, the innocent people down there walkin’ on the street!”

John guffaws. _“Innocent_ people.”

“WHAT IF YOUR FIREWORK,” Paul says calmly, “RAINS _FIRE_ OVER PEOPLE ON THE STREET.”

“Christ Macca, I said _relax._ It _won’t_ rain sparks. Not a _one,_ 'kay?”

Paul draws himself up. “Really?”

"Uh-huh." 

"Not... not a _single_ spark."

"Nope."

"And you're totally sure."

“Yeah,” John pushes himself up. “Cause I already fired one.”

“YOU **_WHAT—”_ **


	3. SO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, thank you [blobfish_miffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy) , [CelesteFitzgerald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteFitzgerald/pseuds/CelesteFitzgerald) and IDONTGETNOSLEEPCAUSEOFYALL for helping me figure out the thermostat of this fic, reading the drafts and putting up with all my screaming. i love you all. really. <3
> 
> second i realise only now that i MISREAD the lyric. hence the title change. 
> 
> thirdly, i rewrote this an exact total of 25 times including 3 different endings, so i really really hope you enjoy it. ;-; back to main verse i go

“...didn’t I tell ye it was two fer the price of—”

“NO!”

“Oops.” But John grins.

“JOHN…....….” Paul says, hands up to his temples. “WHAT IF YOU GOT HURT.” 

“Oh c’mon Macca, d’you not see these?” John slaps his right thigh. “ ‘m practically Jesus!”

Paul grabs John’s hand with both of his. “What if you got arrested??”

“Ya do know ‘s legal on new year’s.”

“I MEANT THE _OTHER ONE!_ WHEN DID YOU SET THAT OFF????”

John flinches. 

“...god, no. I’m sorry,” Paul feels himself go wobbly. ” ‘m sorry John, I just…. I’m listenin’ to you, okay?”

He proves it too, sitting himself down proper on the sofa and guiding John next to him. But John doesn’t sit. He pats the back of Paul’s hand.

“Week one,” John starts cautiously. “We’d just gotten the van fer real an’ ye left with Ritchie.” John meets his eyes. “And I didn’t come with cause I was dizzy?”

Paul nods. 

“Yeah, and _George,”_ he scoffs, “Was prowlin’ the fuckin’ place. God, what a _baby._ He wakes up from his nippy-nap, kicks me arse and demands for his nosh.”

“He kicked your arse?”

“Right out of bed,” John points out. “Anyway, he yells ‘bout pizza, so I ordered one for us both—”

“Oh my god.”

“Aw, shush. What Ritchie don’t know won’t hurt him. ANYWAY, I ended up bein’ the sorry _sod_ who had to finish the ‘ntire _fuckin’_ pizza, cause while I was orderin’ with all HIS favourites on it he ups me one and gets takeaway of this HUGE CURRY.” John spreads his arms wide open. “So I got mad and I was like ‘what the fUck George I just ordered yer pizza’ and he was like, ‘what pizza? I never said I wanted pizza’, even though he fuckin’ DID and then I was like ‘fuck you, it’s comin’ in like twenty minutes’ and then _he_ was like ‘well good luck bitch ‘cause I ain’t sharing this’ and sHOVED the curry tin in me face…. it smelled so good….”

Paul stifles a laugh. 

“Why’re you laughing????” John says, aghast. “I had to eat that ENTIRE pizza! I got sick!!”

“Aww, Johnny—”

“And he wouldn’t even hold my hair!”

Paul breathes in big to not laugh and fails terribly. He throws his head back into the sofa. 

“PAUL.”

“Tha’s—” Paul gasps for air. “Tha’s our baby, all right.”

“We never should’ve had him,” John shakes his head. “And ye know what he did when his old man’s keelin’ over the loo?? ‘e said I’m _no fun.”_

Paul snorts.

“So then I took him to the roof and blasted me firework.”

Paul shuts up. His shoulders stiffen. He’d been so engrossed he’d forgotten to be FRICKED OUT THAT _JOHN BROKE THE FUCKING LAW._

“Oh my god,” Paul shoots off the sofa. “That was in _October!”_

“It was like 3pm! We could barely see it! ” John says quickly. “No one else saw it!”

“IT’S STILL ILLEGAL!”

“SINCE WHEN’RE YA SO CONCERNED WITH LEGALITIES, McCONDOM?”

“wELL I NEVER—” Paul starts to yell, but draws in his breath. “God, I— I’m just _worried,_ John! I don’t wanna fuck up our life here!”

“And ye think _I_ want to?”

“Do I???? You shot a firework off our roof! In bright _October_ daylight!”

"In _daylight,”_ John squishes Paul’s cheeks. “Fireworks, Princess, are night creatures! The most you’d think it’s just some trick o’ the light! I mean— I mean, Geo barely saw it either!”

Paul stares into John’s eyes. He imagines them alight, right in the head of a knock-kneed John who laughs as a rocket spirals into the sky and explodes. Beneath it all George raises his hand above his eyes. Squints. 

Paul drops his head and shoves his hands into his robe pockets. John’s hands travel slowly down his shoulders and sides. “C’mon, Macca?”

“............................fine,” Paul sighs. “I just— I jus’ don’t want ya in trouble, y’know?”

“I know.”

“I mean, it’s bad enough if they’d, well, _seen_ and taken you y’know, but we’re all in this together now,” Paul gestures around them. “It’s me nerves, y’know, but what if they— y’know — raid the place???? Find the rest of it??"

"I only got two."

"But still! _All_ of us could get in the soup! An’ I can’t have that! I can’t go back to _jail,_ John—”

“And I won’t let you!” John says, cracking up. “I’ll make sure they only take me, huh?”

“Is that s’posed to make me feel better??”

John laughs loud and hard. He pulls away from Paul and bends to take his jeans. “Okay, wrong words. I’ll make sure they don’t take _you._ And then I’ll get Ritchie ta bail me out!”

“Did ye not hear what I jus’....” Paul sighs. “What if he gets arrested too.”

"Oh, right. Mimi then.”

Paul stares. John’s arse shakes as he shoves himself back in his jeans. He snorts. “What ‘bout Geo?”

“If anything they'll take 'im _first!_ He's got tha’.... that perfect criminal mug.”

“What criminal mug?”

“You know, that look,” and mimics a scowl in pure Hazza fashion. “Looks like he’s up to somethin’! And even if they don't he’s gonna take this whole _place_ fer himself the second I'm gone—” 

John wrestles with his zipper. Stops. “Gonna bail out Ritchie though, wouldn't he?”

“Course he’s going to,” Paul runs his hand past John’s shoulder as he walks to the fridge. “We’re doomed, Lenny.”

 _“Fuckin’_ doomed.”

“Dead inna _ditch.”_

“Ritchie too.”

“I thought he was gettin’ bailed out,” Paul laughs. He checks the date on the milk carton. “Tea?”

"Fuck yeah," John whips his firework off the cushion. “We still got cookies?”

Paul involuntarily shivers.

“CAVERN cookies,” John adds.

“I’ve ‘ad plenty, thankyou sir,” The fridge closes with a gentle kick. “Mrs Henderson from next door brought us some of her fare yesterday—”

“Gear. McDonalds?”

“Nay!” Paul rolls up his sleeves. “Eatin’ healthier next year.”

“Well it ain’t next year yet!”

Paul shrugs. He ties another knot in his sash and opens the top cabinet. 

“......as he eats Jaffa Cake,” John remarks.

“Lemon-n-lime,” Paul pops one in his mouth and holds the box out, shakes it around. “ ‘appy new year.”

John quirks his brow as he dips his hand in. “Happy new year, Macca.”

Paul smiles, carefully settling himself on the counter below. He snaps a picture of John stuffing his face, unzipped fly front and centre, and sends it to George captioned with kissy faces.

~

The world grows warm for all of a second before Ringo breaks away like a bolt and stuffs a napkin in his nose. George hands him another as he unfreezes. He grabs his phone and gets halfway into WebMD when Ringo barks out a laugh.

“Christ!” he yells. “Oh _Christ._ ’m sorry.”

“What— what for??”

Ringo gives his nose a final wipe and crushes the napkins in his bloody bush of tissues. “Coulda turned you into a fuckin’ Red Delicious, that’s what!”

“.......ye mean the fucked up apples?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well you’re fucked up too!” George sheathes his exhale in a chuckle. “You need anythin’?”

Ringo shakes his head. He rubs the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to push it back into place. Nothing’s out of place.

“I just… damn, I need _tea,”_ Ringo snatches up a fork and cuts his pie, his knuckle tapping snap-snap on the tabletop. George hides the smile that comes over his face under his hand. 

The rest follows and feels almost like cutthroat— in his mind Ringo’s cast himself over the table, buried his nose in George’s cheek, and days and DAYS of everything unsaid would finally be said. His knees would lock, they’d shake trying to hold each other, the pies would shudder on their plates—

George stuffs in a bite of pie. It tastes like ass. 

“I’m gettin’ takeaway.”

“Fair,” Ringo says, though he eats a big second bite. “I’ll wait in the van.”

One packed up curry later George’s phone buzzes when he gets in the passenger seat. The curry tin crackles loud.

“Ohmygodwatchit,” Ringo startles. “They just cleaned this shit—”

“We can’t go home.”

“We can’t go home?”

George holds up his phone. The McLennons have sent their Christmas card. Ringo rolls his eyes.

“Those bitches!” 

_“Fuckin’_ bitches.”

“Drivin’ ‘round then?”

“Oh, _please.”_

“I wasn’t offerin’.” Ringo looks him dead in the eye and taps his nose. “Y’think I’m running’ ‘round with _this_ bloody monster?” 

“Oh, uh, no. Of course not,” George crosses his ankles tightly. “We’ll, uh, jus’—”

“Fuckit, changed me mind," and the van goes back on the road. He flips the radio on and turns them all the way around.

~

Paul pouts when John unwraps himself and runs over boxes into the kitchen, flashing nothing but a look of _aha!_ and picking his way to the storeroom. The opening door sends a box of heavy-sounding things crashing over on the floor. 

“Jesus, John.”

He just laughs. “I just remembered somethin’!”

“What?”

“We’ve got a—” _crash,_ “— ‘s here somewh—” _bANG,_ “— bet yer arse it is—” _cRASH!_

Paul sighs. He hitches up his robe and picks his way over. John and his peeky-arse curve crouch in an unoccupied square of tile, scavenging through a fallen box of what’s probably plant pots. The lights are off. 

“The hell are you lookin’ for???” he laughs. “An’ put those back properly, Geo’s gonna—”

“SCORE,” John unearths a shadowy shape from beneath the junk. Paul clicks the light on. John’s holding a deck chair striped and folded yellow to its very ends.

Paul blinks. 

“We can take it to the roof!” John props the chair under his arm. “Set up a real viewin’ party— _aaah!”_

“Careful!”

The bottom of the chair shoots out with a creak. Paul grabs John’s arm and yanks him back into the kitchen. The chair falls and bursts open amidst a sea of boxes at their feet. John and Paul stare at it. It’s _totally_ fit for a beach day. 

“Oh,” Paul says in fake disappointment.“ ‘s single-seater.”

“Bugger.” John grins wickedly as he palms Paul’s thigh. “Dibs.”

~

The sun’s just a glow after a bit. George makes Ringo pull over at a Spar to stock up on cigs, and Ringo slides himself a slush puppie cup. 

“December, ain’t it?” George remarks. 

“Sure,” Ringo says as though it isn’t, grinning with all his teeth.

Fuck. Okay then. George forks over an extra pound. Maybe if he got frozen as well he’d save himself from his brain’s screaming. Numb the itch of waiting for the new year. George finds his hand halfway in the straw dispenser when he snaps out of it and digs his own from his jacket. 

Ringo notices. “Wha’s that?”

“How I’m saving the planet.”

Ringo hastily shoves his straw back in. He peels the cap off his cup and chugs. 

“I’ve got another one,” George says when slush starts dribbling down Ringo’s chin, but he holds up a hand. When half the cup’s gone he refills from a different tap.

“Ooooh.”

“Hush!” says Ringo. He returns to the van quick as a jiff. George stands near the entrance to light his cig, slush cup in place to block the breeze—

“Geo. Geo.”

“Mm?”

“Get in ‘ere.”

George raises his lighter, but already he’s climbing into the passenger seat. “Yeah?”

“Could ye lend me yer straw.”

“That’s all?” 

“God, don’t start,” Ringo groans. “Nosey’s actin’ up. Fancy not tastin’ me blood....”

“It’s bleedin’ again?”

“No, it’s jus’— thought trees were supposed to save us all from dying or somethin’.”

“With oxygen,” George rolls the window down and laughs through a speedy puff. “And that’s provided we don’t walk into them.”

“I didn’t see it! You sayin’ people die from walkin’ into trees?”

“Course not. You’d hafta be in a car if you wanna get, like, serious shit. Hits. …...serious hits. Yeah.”

“So can ye _please_ lend me yer straw?” Ringo shakes his slush puppie at him. “ ‘s gonna get cold.”

“It… it’s frozen,” George says confusedly. He hands over the straw. Ringo holds his index under his nose as he drinks, as if it were going to drip. It probably isn’t, but George readies the tissue box nearby. Just in case. And keeps his legs pressed close and tight when Ringo’s sips turn into slurps. He leans out his window further and breathes in deep.

“Aw, shit…..” Ringo slams his cup into the holder and cradles his poor noggin. “Why’d I buy this? What’s wrong with my brain??”

“It’s frozen,” George repeats politely. “Congrats.”

“Hah! Why’d _you_ buy one then?” Ringo points at George’s undrunk slush. “Couldn’t bear ta see me suffer alone?”

“That’s right.” 

Ringo looks dumbstruck for a moment. But he smirks bright and changes radio stations with a graceful flick of his wrist. The radio crackles silent.

“You’re not drinkin’ yours.”

“ ‘m savin’ it.”

“What if it melts? Home then?”

They’re off. George shuts his eyes as he exhales another warm cloud. And yet his insides coil in chills.

_Offer yerself,_ Paul suggests over the counter that snowless morning. _Y’know, show him your abs—_

On Ringo’s first night home from the hospital, George pulls his shirt over his head and lays himself atop of him. Ringo wakes with a start. 

_What are ye doin’?_

_Sleeping,_ George answers speedily.

Ringo blinks. Then he laughs, half-laughs, tired and weightless. He rolls out from under him and drapes the covers over them both. 

“Oi,” Ringo, right now, snaps his fingers. George’s bunched his seatbelt in his hands. They’ve stopped at a red light. 

“.......uh.”

“Alright there?”

“Oh yeah, jus’—” he lifts his cig. It’s gone out. 

“You’re spacin’ out alot,” Ringo says, quieter than usual. “So did he find it?”

“What? Find what?”

“John! He found his firework or not?”

“Course he did.” George says with a scoff. “Up Macca’s arse.”

“God! Knowin’ those two…”

“Mmm. He ‘ad to reach _all_ the way in fer it—”

Ringo cringes.

“Say a prayer for ol’ Mac, ya think?”

“Nah. He likes it.”

“All the more! Tha’s his freakin’ resolution!”

“What, gettin’ fucked?” George says in feigned surprise. “Think _John_ should get tha' prayer.”

Ringo bows his head. “O God in thy kingdom above, do watch over John’s arse,” and claps his hands instead of clasp, “Forever and ever…. as long as McLennon stay together. Amen.”

George licks his lips. “An’ it rhymes.”

“An' it rhymes!” Ringo beams. “So what’s yours then?”

“My what?”

The car behind them honks. The light’s green. Ringo turns the van down the street. “Yer resolution!” he says, and George instantly forgets everything he’s ever wanted to do. 

“.....uhhh.”

“Sokay if ‘s somethin’ daft,” Ringo assures him. “Which ‘m sure it’s not, if it’s something _you_ wanna do! ‘m sure it ain’t daft one bit—”

“Grow a herb garden.”

“........there, see? Like _Rosemary’s Baby?”_

“Yeah. I mean, it’d be practical. If we ever wanted, like, some basil, dash of cumin or a rosemary, stuff like that….” George flicks the cig butt out the window. “We could jus’ pick it from the garden.”

“That’s a pretty big garden then.”

“Yeah well, it’s either that,” George nods, “Or I run off an’ start me a maryjane farm.”

“On where? The moon??”

“Don’t see why not!”

“ ‘s _cold_ on the moon,” Ringo says in something like, dare he say it? A whine. “And ye know ye can’t breathe in space.”

“Colorado then. They don’t care if ye grow it for meds or for whatever else up there—”

“You _read_ ‘bout all this?”

~

Paul breathes out a string of clouds. His arse is cold. He should’ve brought his _fuckin’_ quilt and not John’s grubby old—

“Macca!” John calls, bent over the cardboard napkin roll he’s duct-taped to the ground. “Ye got the scissors?”

Paul brings his scarf over his nose again and pushes himself up. John’s at least secured the thing. 

“Still sayin’ we _could’ve_ nicked Geo’s pots,” John says matter-of-factly. “Fill it up an’ we’ve got a backyard none the wiser! ‘s what’s _inside_ that matters, don’t it?”

“He ain’t gonna **_like_ ** burnt up insides,” Paul parrots. “It might, I dunno, fuck with the soil or somethin’, y’know him—”

“So??? We can scrub it! Or get ‘im a new one! It’s a _flowerpot,_ not a Fabergé.”

Paul groans. He walks back to the blanket, palms out for peace. John snips his hand free of tape, fetches the rocket and slips it through the top. He takes a step back. The rocket tilts to the side.

Paul facepalms.

“ 's still standin’!” John says exuberantly. 

Paul’s phone pings in his pocket.

_Monday, 20.53_

**Sharkey:** home

“Okay Johnny.” Paul reaches for their mugs. “You want more wine?”

~

The only light in the flat is from the microwave. George’s flopped face-down in front of it. Paul instantly feels better. 

“ ‘ello!”

George grumbles.

“Is that dinner?”

George grumbles again and it sounds like something painful. Paul allows himself a moment of sympathy before he spots Ringo lurking despondently in the hall. The microwave light goes out with a buzz. 

“Geo, be a dear an’ grab the wine,” Paul instructs, brisk-walking. “ ‘s in the sink.” 

He then shoves Ringo into his room and shuts the door. Ringo collapses face-up on the bed like a starfish.

“Details,” says Paul.

“We…. wedrankslushpuppies.”

“Alriiiiight! Did you say _I love you???”_

“...I did.”

“And????”

“ ‘e threw up on me.”

“Oh my god…..” Paul runs his hands down his face. “I meant like jus’ NOW! On yer fuckin _DATE!”_

“................................................no.”

“Jesus CHRIST—”

“Ikeptfuckin’upSO _BADLY,”_ Ringo cries. “Like, we went to buy slush puppies, and then I asked to borrow his straw to drink mine before it got COLD before I remembered that slushies are like _FROZEN_ ANYWAY, AND THEN I HELD US UP IN TRAFFIC AND NOW HE MIGHT GO ONDOWNTOSOUTHPARKTOSTARTGROWIN’POT!!”

“.................................................................................I have no idea what you jus’ said,” says Paul. “But that‘s _okay!_ This stuff is _good!_ It means you’re gettin’ comfy with each other! And ya really shouldn’t be so _hard_ on yerself—”

“He thinks I‘m a dumbass.”

“He told ya that?”

“I _know_ it.”

“Ritch, he thinks tha’ YOU think he’s a dumbass.”

“No I don’t!” Ringo yells. 

“THEN TELL HIM THAT,” Paul shushes. “He _wants_ you to tell him, y’know! What’samatter??”

Ringo is silent as he sits up. The baby blues droop further than usual, but some part of them just _narrow_ in ways that should never, not for him. Paul locks the door. 

“Ritchie,” Paul’s voice drops to a whisper. “Is it because of—“

“No.”

“You sure?” Paul double-locks the door. “Y’know what I mean, right?”

 _“Yes,”_ Ringo rubs at his eyes. “I‘m WAY past that, okay. What happens in Liddypool stays in _Liddypool,_ don’t it?”

“Definitely! But if it’s…….. _y’know,_ if you’re still thinkin’ about—”

“I’m _not.”_

Ringo meets his eyes with a ferociousness that makes his heart flinch. “An’ as my _wingman,_ I thought yer job was to listen to me first.”

Paul swallows, feels himself bracing. But Ringo blinks quickly and his eyes revert to their signature softness, tHANK GOD, along with the rest of him. 

“Right you are.” Paul takes his hand off the door. “So what’samatter?”

Ringo takes a deep breath.

“How do I go ‘bout asking my best friend to—”

“BEST FRIEND,” Paul snorts. 

“Wha—? What? What??”

“You’re _dating!”_ Paul says, amused but mostly horrified. “For Chrissake, you’ve kissed, you’ve been to the movies, an’ you’ve _kissed during those movies—”_

“We didn't actually _—_ ”

“YOU SLEEP IN THE SAME BED.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask him to be my official…... thing!”

Paul grabs Ringo’s shoulders. 

_“Boyfriend.”_

Ringo’s eyes widen in horror.

“I thought you two were fine at Christmas??” 

“We were! We _are!”_

“What’s stoppin’ ya then? ‘fraid he’ll say no?” Paul releases him. “Cause bloody hell Ritchie, _he’s_ afraid _you’ve_ already said no.”

Ringo scrunches his nose. “....he didn’t ask me ‘bout that.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

Paul’s phone lights up with _Galileo_ chants. 

_“We got wine,”_ John says, voice choppy in the wind. _“Can ya bring my hat?”_

~

Everything’s fine. Everything’s gear. In an hour the new year would come get them all. The breeze comes in gusts and John and Paul jive to another [Elvis song](https://open.spotify.com/track/5PK7WXObjGgZrtGOo5FBTW?si=N8FqG0MNQBCxKRTFfARjjg) and scream so loud George barely hears his uke. Next to him Ringo sits scrolling Instagram with his earphones in.

“Okay, okAY,” John yells when his playlist ends, “My _new_ new year’s resolution is to…. to make us all a proper act!”

He’s had whole mugs of mulled wine. Paul thumbs a stray drop of it from his chin.

 _“Aren’t_ we a proper act!” 

“Proper acts get tons of gigs!” John yells. “An’ managers! An’— an’ free shit.” Then he burps and sends Paul doubling over, sprawled and shitting himself laughing on the blanket. Ringo rescues his mug.

“Managers,” Paul says breathlessly.

“Ye heard me.”

“An’ then records.”

“Top of the line! An’ then we’ll go to—”

“Paris!”

John swoops down and kisses Paul’s lips. George snorts in disgust. He looks at Ringo to back him up, _aren’t they jus’_ so _married_ , but Ringo’s holding his chin and staring into the abyss of his mug. George turns back to his uke. 

“I wanna real goddamn manager,” John says, lapped and drinking over Paul’s head. “An’ they better be somethin’, not some arse who wants ta sell us on SoundCloud or whatever the fuck.”

Ringo chuckles.

“The hell you laughin’ at?? 'e tried to scoop yer peach—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Paul wipes John’s jaw clean. “As long as they’re legit.”

George's insides feel stuck and frozen. He returns to strumming, the strings cold and sharp. John and Paul make drunk, content noises as they press together, cheek to cheek, John's arms wind around Paul's neck as he— 

"Oh my god," John says suddenly. " ‘s been five years hasn’t it? Six?"

"Five," Paul smiles. "An' forevermore."

Oh Lord, _no._ George bites his cheeks and swallows his laughs. Even Ringo's lowered his mug. John's glasses catch the light and flash as he nuzzles— no, SOBS into Paul's neck, blubbering something only they can hear. Paul hugs him at the waist.

"Jesus," Ringo whispers before downing his mug. George startles when he stands up.

"Where're you—" 

"Gettin’ more."

"It's over there," George points to the jug he'd hauled to the roof, which is now as clear as day. 

"Kinda want juice," Ringo shrugs. “Ya want some?—”

“TWENTY MINUTES,” John leaps off Paul. _“Bring on the cookies!”_

Paul’s smile instantly turns into pain. “Fuck no!”

 _“CAVERN_ cookies.”

“THEY’RE PROBABLY FUCKIN’ STALE,” Paul yells back. “It’s been like a week—”

“So? They’re ace,” John jumps arms-and-legs akimbo into his deck chair. “We still have ‘em, right? Ringo????” 

“Huh?”

“Do we still got our Cavern cookies? They should be in Tupperware—”

“You keep EVERYTHING in Tupperware!”

John perches and pouts. “An’ _you_ can find anythin’!”

Paul gives him the stink eye as he winds his scarf around his face. 

“Pretty pleeeeeeeeease.”

“Whatever,” Ringo huffs. “Ya better not light that ‘thout me!” 

John reels in pretend shock at such an idea before roaring his arse off. Ringo runs to the stair door. Paul, with only his fringe visible, groans. 

George does too, curling in deep on himself. The kitchen’s a bloody mess. The streets underneath glow brighter by the second.

“Damn,” John says, trying to work his lighter. “We got competition.”

George spots Ringo’s mug knocked over on the ground. It’s still the same chipped orange thing emblazoned with a sanatorium logo, long blotched by the Sharpie stars scrawled over it. He leans over. 

~

It's less daft when George decides he’ll think of it as duty. Ringo's mug is oddly cold to have just held mulled wine, even for how much he's cut down. 

He takes his uke with him, never trusting drunk McLennons to watch where they step. 

The flat's dark. George flips the light switch near the door to no avail. His phone light comes on just as there's a huge cRASH from the kitchen. 

He scurries over. Ringo's laying behind the counter, cushioned by a bed of boxes. 

“OhthankGodit’syou," he says. "The fuse's fucked."

"Ya don't say," George extends his hand. "You alright?"

"I jus' slipped— there we go—"

Ringo kicks a crinkled piece of paper. It's John's fucking inventory list, chicken-scrawled numbers smudging all over. George sighs as he helps Ringo to his feet. "Where's yer phone?"

" 's outta juice. Why're you here?"

"Um, gettin' juice," George says as un-awkwardly as possible. "An' you left yer mug—"

The flat suddenly lights up.

George and Ringo scream, slamming their elbows and the counter as the overheads flicker. Two identical Tupperwares of cookies stare at them from the spice rack.

George sets his uke down next to Ringo's mug. "....John made a new batch?"

".....did he??"

"I don't— _shit,_ Macca's gonna murder 'im," George snickers. "Fuckin' git."

Ringo sighs instead. He takes one in his hands and inspects it up close. 

“Okay, these look _way_ too nice,” He frees a perfect little gingerbread man, his icing-smile in neat red and whites. “An’ they smell gear.”

“John's cookies smelt gear too.”

“But these look way too pretty! ‘s impossible! Unless he—”

“Actually followed the recipe?”

“Ayup, that’s it,” Ringo nudges the cookie back in. “Jesus, ‘is first batch was shit!”

George promptly remembers all his sicking up on the floor. THIS very floor, bits of cookie and slasher-victim gingerbread spewing out of him like a mad sewer tap. And then Ringo, selflessly trying to help, and getting his back all strewn in—

“Geooooooo,” Ringo says suddenly. George jumps. Ringo’s now pouring himself apple juice in front of the fridge. 

“I said thanks fer bringin’ it,” he raises his mug. “Wanna share?”

~

They’re back on the roof in ten, nine minutes. George and Ringo bring both Tupperwares and Ringo’s mug filled for two. George steals the scarf off a passed-out Paul, and at eight minutes John goes frantic searching for a song to ring 2019 in with. John wakes Paul at five minutes when he settles on Elvis. 

“This is it folks,” John says, last cig of the year in his mouth. “We’re gonna make this thing! We’re goin’ to the toppermost of th— holy shit, is that the London Eye?????”

“That’s the moon,” says George. 

Ringo wheezes. Paul, laid up in the deck chair, lets out a big snort.

“Bullshit,” says John. He bends at his sorry excuse of a rocket launcher and sends Paul scream-springing out the chair with a click of his lighter. John cackles madly, phone clattering to the floor. 

“Jesus Macca, ‘sa joke—”

Paul sticks his tongue out at John. Ringo scrambles to his feet. 

“I ain’t lightin’ it, Ritchie!”

“Need the loo,” Ringo runs to the stairs again. “Be right back—”

“Ya better be!” George yells. The stair door slams shut.

Paul rests his head on George’s knee and giggles as drunk as hell. His feet nudge John in the arse. “Two minutes.”

“Uh-huh,” John smirks. “Pucker up.”

George blinks. He turns sharply to the stair door.

“Aight, so ‘e says the first _‘doncha think it’s time’_ at twenty-six seconds?”

“No, twenty-three,” says Paul. “Twenty-six’s the end of it.”

“Sixty minus twenty-three….”

“Thirty-seven.”

George checks his phone. It turns sixty seconds exactly. Below them London is a great, burning city. 

John opens his arms. “C’mere.”

Paul lifts himself off George’s knees. John’s lighter snaps to life and dies from the vexing wind. He curses once, tries again, and it works. Paul starts the [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/1KdAQLzlNDezCKPtAc2Xu1?si=i63RE23jRCSKpemCOyk3MQ) and turns it up. George finds his teeth in his lip as John brings the lighter to the wick—

George scoots back on the blanket as John and Paul’s lips meet, Elvis crooning over them both. All of London and all of England cheer as they ring out the old and ring in the new, and George hugs his uke to his chest.

John and Paul break apart to either side. The firework whizzes into the air and explodes in a dandelion of light. They gaze up at it, broad and blissful. 

Then the stair door bursts open and in stumbles Ringo, neck stretched to the sky. He bends down panting, hands on his knees. George sets his uke aside to get up. 

" 'ey," John slurs. "Is somethin' burnin'?"

~

After George's soaked the CARDBOARD launcher in apple juice and folded the deck chair, John drapes the blanket over his head and keeps it there when he smashes face-down on the sofa. And Paul, Lennon senses rampant, slides into the armchair next to him. Ringo chucks the charred kitchen roll in the bin. 

"How was it?" he asks.

"How was what?"

"Firework. Did it suck?"

"Course it did! 's just one," George shuts the storeroom door. "Ya heard it?"

"Hafta be Superman....." Ringo shrugs. "Eh, 's jus' hydrotechnics."

"Pyrotechnics."

"Pyrowhat?"

"Firework stuff. _Pyro_ means fire, _hydro_ means water."

"What in the Queen's English—"

" 's Latin."

'Pishposh! 's fire lights," Ringo steps over boxes and opens the fridge. "Yer slush's still here."

"Told ya 'm savin' it," George says because he _totally_ hasn't forgotten about it. 

"It melted."

".....easier to drink."

"Okay cherry bomb," Ringo says, peeling the cap off. “You mind?"

George moves his succulents from the window so there's room for them and the cup. He lights his cig off of Ringo’s and makeshifts the plastic cap into an ashtray. 

He checks his texts. “Harry and Peter say happy new year.” 

“Gear. Lulu?”

“2018. You called Elsie?”

“Course I did. She’s paintin’ the town first time in years,” Ringo pouts. “ ‘cause I’m outta the house.”

“Good for her! She deserves a break.”

“What, from me?? I‘m a _joy._ ”

“I said that to _my_ mum and she shoved me on the train.” 

“Gotta love Missus H,” Ringo taps his cig. “Did you phone 'er yet?”

“Not since last year.”

Ringo lets out a groan and drops his head smack on the windowsill. George takes a long, smiling sip. 

“Fuckin’ lame.”

George snickers.

“You’re lucky I….” Ringo starts, but stops. He leans, wipes the length of the sill. “Ye know that garden of yours?”

George eyes his succulents near the sink. “Yeah?”

“D’you want, like, a land or a flowerbox?”

“Both. An’ the box should be here,” George turns to peer down the stretch of building below and back. “Gotta DIY, though.”

“Sounds gear.”

“Thanks.” 

Their eyes meet, and they hold it there. The lightest of breezes blow through the window and sends smoke whirling into their faces. Ringo coughs and reaches for the cup. 

“And, um, ” George says, drawing himself up. “Thanks for today too.”

“An’ to you.”

“How’s yer nose doin’?”

Ringo pokes the side of it. “ ‘s there.”

He takes another puff before he buries said nose in the cup, eyes closing. George licks his lips. 

“Well, I've told ya my resolution.”

“Mmmm.”

“Now ya hafta tell me yours.”

Ringo’s eyes dart to him and then to the buildings across. And he chuckles. 

“What if I don’t have one?”

“Last year’s then.”

“Ye really wanna hear it?”

“I’ll hear everything you say.”

“Think you’d be disappointed then,” Ringo scratches his neck. “I jus’ resolved to, ah, attend church every Sunday.”

“That’s…. I don’t think that’s disappointing.”

“No, ‘cause I _quit._ I prayed to God an’ asked Him to please, _please_ lemme get what I want. An’ then He answered, so I stopped.”

George blinks. “What did you want?”

Ringo looks at him then. For a brief, wondrous moment, George wonders if it might be him. 

“To get out,” Ringo takes a puff on his cig. “An’ when all this takes off ‘m buyin’ Elsie an’ Harry a bungalow. Got my sights set on somewhere like Kensal—”

George’s insides do a drop that they have no right to. A familiar chill blanks his mind out like an old wound. He lets his cig fall in the cap.

“What’s wrong?” Ringo notices. “Ye look sad.” 

“I’m— ‘m not sad.”

Ringo looks at him, tilts his own head. He snuffs his cig on the edge of the cap. 

“Right.”

A long hang of silence. And Ringo keeps his gaze on George, ice-eyes soft and open.

"Geo, when I buy the Kensal house we'll get invited to dinner ya know," he adds. "So you better stay 'ere."

"....what?"

"Stay here! Don't move to Colorado," Ringo says incredulously. " 's _hard_ gettin' to America. I tried. An' I'd really fuckin' miss you. Elsie too."

George isn't sure what to make of this. He laces his fingers in front of himself just for something to do with his hands. He’d been pushing it really, demanding so much from Ringo just days ago. How dare he be so shocked about the whole thing, demanding that Ringo lay his eyes on him and kiss his lips. It was a miracle that Ringo was willing to share a _bed_ — and now he wishes he hadn't thought of beds. 

George glances out the window. He wills for his heart to still and maybe for the floor to eat him up, but most of all he wants more than anything to be held so tightly he feels no more fear. He wants to feel warm and forgiven and told to not shake so much.

“Geo, ‘s _okay._ I’m listenin’—”

“I’ve been a piece of _shit,_ Ringo,” says George. “I _fucked_ up so badly.”

Ringo raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m— I’m grateful for you, you know? You’ve got to know," George laughs. "And with all that’s happened I can’t possibly fathom why the _fuck_ you’d want to ask me out. An’ I think jus’.... maybe just _maybe_ my tat was bound to happen, like in fuckin’ _Liddypool_ or _here_ or _Mars_ or wherever the fuck else.”

“....alright.”

“And sometimes I just wish I could’ve jus’ fucking—” George bites back a wave of tears that hits and quakes him “—I wish I could’ve just tried to do somethin’ differently. Tried it _all_ differently. An' with you— I‘m not sad, I‘m angry because I _love_ you and there’s no excuse for me and what I _fucking_ did to you.”

Ringo doesn’t speak. He looks downwards. George’s dug his nails into his palms. But Ringo moves forward then, ice-eyes drooped as usual, and takes his hands in both of his. 

His rings feel cool and quelling. 

“Ya don’t have ta do this, ya know.” Ringo says like he’s trying to comfort him. He knows what he means. "I don’t care 'bout that anymore.”

George stares. His mouth's opening to voice shock, surprise, but he's gone mute.

Ringo tries taking in a breath, but he’s shaky too. “ ‘s a new year, George. I wanna be _new._ And I want you here with me, ‘cause _hell_ if ya think I’m gonna do all this without you. Now breathe.”

George breathes.

“An’ that means I can’t have ya shutting yourself down like that,” Ringo continues. “It‘s ain’t good for you, ‘kay. You don’t deserve that.”

“.....and I don’t deserve you.” 

“That’s not what I—” Ringo lets out a croaky sigh and drops his hands like they’re hot. “Geo, you’re killin’ me.”

“ ’m sorry,” the cig's dropping ash in the cap. George makes to blow it out when Ringo’s ringed grasp comes down hard on his shoulders. And he kisses him— _really_ kisses him— the sheer strength of it shredding every bit of cold from the wind.

Ringo pushes himself atop of George, or maybe George pulls Ringo atop of him as his back crashes against the door of the cleaning cupboard. George tilts his head down, cups Ringo's face and catches his lower lip with a desperation that absolutely opens him up. His breaths come short and shallow, Ringo's even more so as he catches the side of George’s lips and bites, barely, like he's changed his mind. George lets go of one hand and throws it down Ringo’s waist, while a ringsy metal touch skims upwards with his shirt—

All the kitchen lights come on. 

George and Ringo scream, splitting themselves so fast they swear they hear the sound. Paul stands on the other side of the kitchen with one hand on the switch and a shit-grin so big he can’t even hide it with his other hand. George feels himself gasp raggedly.

“Oh, don’t mind me! ‘m not here.” Paul says, opening the fridge. “Carry on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything i know about cold temperatures and america and weed i learnt from the wonderfully patient miffy and the tegridy episodes on south park. all other inaccuracies are on my singaporean ass. leave a review if you enjoyed! 
> 
> p.s: [cabin fever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361290/chapters/40850747)


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